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<title>Do You Ever Think of Me the Way I Think About You? by mthrfkrgdhrwego (universalchampbalor)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22749934">Do You Ever Think of Me the Way I Think About You?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/universalchampbalor/pseuds/mthrfkrgdhrwego'>mthrfkrgdhrwego (universalchampbalor)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>No Matter What You Do (Someone Always Knew You Would) [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Professional Wrestling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Angst with a Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Slow Burn, Time Skips</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 10:14:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,807</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22749934</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/universalchampbalor/pseuds/mthrfkrgdhrwego</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Roman has a reputation that precedes him. Dean’s never interacted with him because of course he hasn’t. Roman and Dean run in very different circles; while Dean’s the antithesis of Winter Park, Roman is the epitome of it. Roman is the good, god-fearing Christian boy who keeps a Bible in his bag and plays on the football team. He’s big and gorgeous and sociable and everything Dean isn’t.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Ambrose | Jon Moxley/Roman Reigns</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>No Matter What You Do (Someone Always Knew You Would) [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1421872</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Do You Ever Think of Me the Way I Think About You?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'M BACK MOTHERFUCKERS!<br/>Welcome to the Ambreigns Small Town AU Redux™! This is the same story as the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/18378626/chapters/43521710">first installment</a> but from Dean's POV.<br/>You can thank Samael and the wrasslin chat for this since Sam's adoration of this fic motivated me to write this.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean's never been one for <em>friends.</em></p><p>There are a lot of reasons. He doesn’t exactly have the home life that’s generally required; he can’t have friends over, can’t have them stay the night, and he doubts he’d be <em>allowed</em> in most people’s homes. He’s not much of a people person anyway, has always been someone who prefers a fight to small talk. </p><p>The biggest reason, however, is he’s the only visibly queer person in a small, rural, southern town with more churches than banks.</p><p>He likes to think he’s dealing pretty well. He’s passing his classes, he can avoid the ire of his mother most days, no one really bothers him, he can drink and fight and fuck as much as he wants without getting carded. Sure, he isn’t the most popular kid, but he doesn’t <em>want </em>to be anyway. The one friend he has, Renee, is more than enough to fill his social interaction quota.</p><p>His life is going perfectly fine until the start of his junior year.</p><p>He skips most of his classes because, by this point, he’s angry and jaded about his education and his future prospects. He’s spent so long having the idea of a shit future beaten into him that he can’t bring himself to pretend to care anymore.</p><p>After the first week, Renee manages to talk him into attending his chemistry class. Maybe it’s because he’s sick of pushing people away, or the fact that he’s bored out of his skull without school, or that he’s always had a soft spot for Renee, or because he <em>likes</em> science and doesn’t want this podunk town to steal another of the scant few interests he has, or maybe a mixture of them. Maybe it’s something dumb like destiny. </p><p>Whatever the reason, he goes to class and promptly learns he’s lab partners with <em>Roman fucking Reigns.</em></p><p>Roman has a reputation that precedes him. Dean’s never interacted with him because of <em>course</em> he hasn’t. Roman and Dean run in very different circles; while Dean’s the antithesis of Winter Park, Roman is the epitome of it. Roman is the good, god-fearing Christian boy who keeps a Bible in his bag and plays on the football team. He’s big and gorgeous and sociable and everything Dean isn’t.</p><p>Dean can’t bring himself to look at Roman for several days. </p><p>He won’t talk to him either; some not insignificant part of Dean feels like he’ll <em>ruin</em> Roman if they interact, that he’ll <em>soil</em> the town’s golden boy. Dean’s never been one to ignore the chance to tarnish something precious, but for some reason, he can’t bear the thought of doing that to Roman.</p><p>It takes very little time for Roman to slap a hand on the desk and ask Dean what he did wrong. It’s not so much a question as a demand; <em>tell me what I did wrong</em>. Dean feels his heart stop in his chest. He makes an effort to interact after that. </p><p>Dean learns he really likes Roman’s smile.</p><p>He likes all of Roman’s smiles. The soft, barely-there one that’s always accompanied by soft, fond eyes makes something in Dean’s stomach twist. The large, full toothed grin that spreads Roman’s lips and crinkles his eyes is terribly infectious. The sharp, bright smile that blooms when he laughs makes Dean’s heart glow with warmth in his ribcage. </p><p>Dean knows he’s fucked as soon as he considers Roman a friend.</p><p>It comes at the end of junior year, during a discussion about their summer plans. Roman’s not doing anything- for once, it seems- other than staying home and spending time with family. Dean can barely force himself to admit to not having plans. He finds himself mentioning his mom despite himself. The word <em>working</em> drags across his tongue like cigarette ash.</p><p>He knows that Roman knows about his home life-or, more accurately, his lack thereof. Everyone knows about it; He’s Dean Ambrose, the queer bastard son of a drug dealer and a whore, who lives in the <em>Bad Side</em> of town and always comes in busted to hell. He can <em>feel</em> Roman’s eyes on the bruises blooming around his wrists and it feels too much like pity.</p><p>Then Roman has the <em>audacity</em> to invite him to stay the summer.</p><p>Dean panics, the muscles in his arms tensing as if to prepare for a fight. He knows Roman would never, but so much of his brain is yelling at him that this is a trap, a ploy, some evil plan to hurt him when he’s at his most vulnerable. He barely hears Roman explaining that his family has the room, the food, and how much his mom would love Dean.</p><p>The ride to Roman’s house feels like a dream. </p><p>Dean’s half-dissociated the entire ride, on edge and barely aware of anything other than possible threats. His hands are gripping the torn strap of his bag so tight his knuckles grind painfully. His knee hasn’t stopped bouncing even though his muscles are screaming at the movement. He can’t remember how to talk until halfway there.</p><p>Once he starts, the words don’t stop. He asks if Roman’s sure his parents won’t hate him, that it won’t cause trouble, that he’ll be <em>safe</em>, is this is some kind of sick joke. </p><p>The way Roman’s face softens into sadness when he chokes out <em>why are you so nice to a fuckup like me</em> makes Dean’s heart ache so strongly in his chest that he thinks he’s dying for a second.</p><p>Roman’s reassurances fall on half-deaf ears. He knows Roman is serious, knows Roman would never try to hurt him like this (<em>because Roman isn’t cruel like Dean), </em>but knowing that doesn’t combat 17 years of abuse and disregard and callousness. He stares at the scuffed dashboard the rest of the drive, his ears barely aware of the sappy, desperate Radiohead song playing quietly through the speakers.</p><p>Dean puts on his best behavior when meeting Roman’s parents.</p><p>He always feels out of place, has never <em>had</em> a place, but the feeling has never been more invasive than when he stands in the immaculate living room. He’s still and disjointed and can barely remember how basic social pleasantries work. He forces himself through the introductions and bites back an apology to Mrs. Reigns about how he’s undoubtedly going to ruin her son.</p><p>After that, Dean essentially moves in.</p><p>It happens gradually. It starts with him leaving a change of clothes and an extra toothbrush at Roman’s house. Eventually, his shit fills the closet of the extra bedroom even though he never uses it. His leather jacket hangs next to Roman’s letterman, his boots muddy up the floor next to Roman’s cleats, his favorite blanket takes up residence on Roman’s bed. He gets <em>comfortable</em>, to the point where Mr.s Reigns is ten times the mother than his ever was and he can accept their frequent hugs without flinching.</p><p>It still doesn’t <em>fix </em>Dean.</p><p>He’s still adamant about not accompanying them to church. He’s still the filthy queer who fucks men twice his age in seedy club bathrooms and dingy alleys. He still drinks and smokes way more than a kid his age ever should. He still has his <em>moments</em>, times where he can’t speak despite the words crawling up his throat, times where he claws at his skin until it bleeds and rips chunks of hair out whenever things get to be Too Much. He still lines his wrists with neat white scars and hits himself and breaks things when he can’t deal. He’s doing better than he ever has, though, which is admittedly a low bar to clear.</p><p>It all crumbles on Roman’s 18th birthday.</p><p>They spend the day holed up in Roman’s room with 3 pizzas, more soda than they can drink, and a box of donuts fresh from the bakery. They play video games until their fingers ache, trading playful insults and gentle ribbing. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever laughed this much in his life.</p><p>The thing that ends the only good thing Dean’s ever known is a fucking chocolate smear.</p><p>Roman’s blissfully unaware of the frosting on his lower lip, but Dean can’t bring himself to look away. He knows he’s skating a dangerous line when he leans in too close and looks between Roman’s parted lips and his wide eyes. He smooths the frosting away with a drag of his thumb, trying to keep his cold, rough hands gentle in a way he’s never accomplished before.</p><p>Dean doesn’t even realize he leans in until he’s half in Roman’s lap.</p><p>Dean knows he isn’t a soft person. He’s never learned how and up until now, he’s never wanted to. Kindness doesn’t have a place in a life like his. Still, as his hand grips Roman’s chin and he kisses like he’s fighting, teeth and tongue and too much too fast, he wishes, with everything he has, that he could do something <em>right</em> for once in his life.</p><p>Roman tastes like grease and chocolate and something heady that Dean can’t identify but is quickly becoming his favorite taste. His lips are soft, pliant, plush, and his hands grip fleetingly at Dean’s shirt.</p><p>And then he shoves Dean away.</p><p>Dean fucking <em>knew</em> this would happen, knew he’s ruin this eventually because he’s never been able to have something good without ruining it. It doesn’t make it sting any less; the look on Roman’s face, full of panic and distress and confusion, feels like a knife digging into Dean’s ribs. Roman stares at him, mouth opening and closing around immediately abandoned words. Dean can’t leave fast enough.</p><p>In fact, Dean leaves town after that.</p><p>He digs parallel tracks into his thighs with a dull razor blade and scribbles a note with hands shaky from blood loss. He’s barely coherent of what he writes; all he knows is he apologizes, the only time he’s sincerely done that in his entire goddamn life, tells Roman that he knew this would fucking happen, and promises he won’t ruin Roman’s life any more than he already has. He tells Roman where he’s going out of a half-baked hope that Roman will try to find him.</p><p>He tries to not think about Roman. He fails, obviously, because his brain loves nothing more than tormenting him. At first, he’s angry, down to his fucking bones. He knows it’s irrational, but a large part of his brain screams about <em>how fucking dare Roman do that who gave him the right this is all his fault</em>. The violent urges come after that, the desire to rip Roman’s teeth out for hurting him like everyone who said he never would turn into. Eventually, that anger melts away into something darker, heavier, invasive. Depression is no stranger, but the depths of it reach lows Dean never expected. </p><p>Eventually, he just finds himself wanting forgiveness.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm vampiremox on Tumblr! Come bug me!<br/>Title credit to Hiding With the Boys by Creeper</p></blockquote></div></div>
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